


Hard Times

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, I'mNotGay!John, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 01, Sex, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What the? John blinks, and replays their previous conversation. “Sherlock, did you just text Mycroft about my...” erectile dysfunction, “...COCK?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clevermanka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clevermanka/gifts).



> Warning: a brief scene of John/OFC
> 
> For Clevermanka, I hope that this helps with your season one fic cravings! 
> 
> Beta and Brit-picking was by the wonderful Jie_Jie, thank you!

 

 

John wakes up with a hard-on. 

He’s already got his hand down his pants before he’s completely awake, the vague memory of the tantalising slope of someone’s back against his naked chest, _rutting_ against... 

It’s only when he wakes up a bit more that he realises that it’s been a long time. 

A very long time, actually. 

John pushes his pants down, his sheets out of the way, and focuses on holding his half-hard cock. Teasing out the soft, heated tension in his spine. Getting lost in a fantasy or two. 

He fondles his balls, and is surprised by the level of sensation from them, how roughly it runs through him. 

He moves his hand upwards, pushes his cock through the ring of his thumb and finger. He uses his whole hand to stroke himself slow, and get a feel for it again. It feels good - _great_ , actually. 

God, it’s been forever. 

John kicks his pants out of the way, the sheets away, and spreads his legs wider. He pulls his balls, a little rough, the way he likes it. He speeds up his hand, and then slows it down again. 

The feeling from his dream is giving way to tried and true images now. _A couple of blondes in a locker room, kissing, and one of them goes down on the other._

But no, that’s not really... John turns to his side and presses his legs together. He spits in his palm, makes it wet and a bit dirty, and pulls himself off like that. 

_Some porn he saw once where a man’s going down on a woman, the way she grinds herself onto him, the way she begs him, “Don’t stop, oooh.”_

No. Not that. John turns to lie on his stomach, pushes into his hand and the friction of the mattress, and tenses the muscles of his arse. 

_Fucking, he’s fucking - who, someone, doesn’t matter, a warm, smooth back, there’s moaning, they want him to..._

He stops. 

John rolls back onto his back, gives his cock a few more pulls. It feels good, still, but... 

Yeah. It’s not going to happen. 

John pulls the covers back up, and lies there for a bit more, waiting for it to go down on its own, then. He’s not too disappointed that he didn’t get to come, he got this far, so, progress, yeah? 

He remains fairly pleased about it all day. Hums, even, while he’s making dinner. 

Sherlock catches the humming, and looks him over questioningly. John shrugs. 

John’s still thinking about it when they’re sitting down after dinner, watching some TV. And when he can feel himself growing half-hard, he goes to bed a full hour earlier than he usually would. He digs out the lube this time. Takes it slow and careful, teases himself. But again, he gets so far, but not all the way there. 

It stops being quite so much fun after that. 

John wakes up hard nearly every morning. He can feel it when the water hits him just right in the shower, when his dressing gown rubs against him. At work, too. It’s starting to feel like an especially memorable week at uni when he was sitting next to... well, he forgets her name, only that there was a mini-skirt involved. She allowed him to slowly trace his fingers on the inside of her thigh during a boring lecture, and he fingered her, slow, afterwards being too hard to stand up for long, long minutes. 

The difference being that, eventually, he did get there with her, and he had plenty of manual distraction in the meantime. 

Now, it’s just starting to get uncomfortable. 

Sherlock has noticed, John knows he has. And yes, on day five, when John sits down gingerly onto the sofa and half-crosses his legs to hide the bulge there, Sherlock stares straight at his laptop, and announces, matter-of-factly, “You are experiencing frequent erections.” 

John’s sense of propriety is already far out of the door, Sherlock’s probably already deduced everything about him down to the colour of his underwear, so he’s kind of glad that he gets to bring it up, actually. “Yes,” he admits. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick away from the laptop screen, a little hesitantly, not quite so cool talking about this as he’s pretending to be, John thinks. “You have tried to...?” Sherlock frowns, the ridges in his forehead suddenly visible. He’s actually at loss for words. 

Hah! John considers telling him quite _how much_ he has tried, but then decides against it. “Oh, yes.” He smiles, a little conspiratorially, _we’re all men here_ , but it still feels... off. They’re not those kinds of friends. 

Sherlock looks away. He types on his laptop, and doesn’t say anything else. 

John picks up a book after a moment, feeling oddly dejected. _What did you think Watson, that he’d offer sympathy? That he’d know something you don’t?_

It makes him feel worse about it, suddenly. What if he really can’t come? What if it’s medically relevant? John pretends to read his book for the next five minutes, occasionally turning a page without seeing what’s even there. He actually debates going to his room and trying again, but it’s going to look awfully suspicious now, so he sticks it out, breathes out slowly, and forces himself to get it under control. 

If it really continues like this there are ways to make it stop, of course. Maybe it’s his hormones playing havoc, a recovering brain sending out all the wrong signals. His doctor would probably love to know about this, but John’s loath to go in and have them question him, at least about this. It’s harmless, anyway. It’s not that he minds, either. It’s just that it’s giving him a bit of an uncomfortable flashback to puberty here - unexpected erections haven’t been an issue for quite a while. 

Sherlock grabs his phone, and plays on that for a while. 

John admits defeat and switches the book for a newspaper, where he can read a small article at a time. He’s absorbed into a murder case that sounds kind of interesting actually - it’s in Wales so it might be a bit out of Sherlock’s jurisdiction, but he’s about to tell him about it, when Sherlock’s phone pings with a new message. 

Sherlock takes it, hums appreciatively, and says conversationally, “Mycroft suggests prostate stimulation.”

_What the?_ John blinks, and replays their previous conversation. “Sherlock, did you just text Mycroft about my...” _erectile dysfunction,_ “...COCK?” He wants to put his head in his hands. _Jesus._

“Yes?” Sherlock says. He looks a bit confused, but John isn’t sure whether it’s actual embarrassment, or if he’s just putting it on for him. 

John tries to imagine Mycroft and _prostate stimulation_ in the same scenario, and blanks. Then laughs a little, and tries to shake the a-bit-too-close-to-home-ness of it. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Say that.” 

Sherlock’s frowning. 

“Because he’s...” John peters out. Wait, isn’t he? Mycroft? John had sort of assumed, having met him, but it’s not like he’s sure of it.

Sherlock seems to take his expression for disgust, because he adds, defensively, “It’s not _gay_ , John. It makes perfect sense, you’re a doctor, you should know that.” 

John nods, weakly. There is no response that he can think of that isn’t ‘don’t ever talk about my genitals to your brother again’ or ‘go on’. He coughs awkwardly. 

Sherlock goes back to his laptop, typing a bit too fast and defensively for John to think that he isn’t feeling a bit less than composed, too. In fact... John gets up, not bothering to disguise the fact that yes, he’s still half-hard, puts his book away, folds the newspaper, and walks away. “Might as well.”

He’s bluffing. But he swears that he can hear Sherlock’s swallow as he leaves the room. 

It’s good to make _him_ uncomfortable, for once.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

John tries to get off in about a dozen ways. He always _hopes_ , but nothing happens, and eventually he just gives up, and feels the frustration pulse under his skin. 

So he asks out a woman or two. Then goes to adultfriendfinder.com. Then, after a full week of that, realises that he’s just kidding himself if he thinks he’ll find someone there. Not for this. He clicks on a different website. 

Her name is Emmy. Or that’s what she tells him. 

She goes on her knees for him. Condom on, John closes his eyes, pushes into her mouth, and she sucks him off. It takes a good twenty minutes before John tells her to stop, still painfully tense. He tries to fuck her, then. With lube, and careful thrusts, then harder ones, then with her on top. It doesn’t work. 

John leaves her a fifty pound tip he can’t actually afford. 

It doesn’t help to make him feel better at all. Especially not when he comes home and Sherlock looks him over, and John can tell that he _knows_. 

No one wants an old doctor. Not for fucking, they don’t. 

John’s on another date today, staring at - he forgot her name, Sophie maybe? - and the way she curls her hair around her finger as she talks. He hasn’t been listening to her for the last ten minutes. 

Maybe he’ll just go without then, John thinks. Maybe that’s been enough now. He can ignore it. 

He feels his mobile buzz in his pocket, and takes it out immediately. _“How much coffee do you need to drink? Come home, dissecting cat livers. SH”_

Home. John doesn’t apologise to Sophie-or-whatever-her-name-is, and he doesn’t pretend that he’s listening anymore, either. Just types, slowly, _“Be there soon, use the dissecting cutlery, remember we eat with the other stuff. JW”_

By the time John looks up maybe-Sophie’s standing, with an annoyed expression on her face. 

She leaves. 

John walks home, and tries to think of some way to fix all of it. To get off, and to get over... well, this. Maybe he should get it checked out. Go see a doctor after all. 

When he opens the door, it smells sharply like formaldehyde. John looks around the corner, into the kitchen. 

Sherlock is wearing his safety goggles and yellow rubber gloves that John suspects he swiped from Mrs. Hudson at one point. They’re covered in blood. He’s holding a scalpel, and is closely studying what looks to be a small, partially decayed liver that has a fork sticking from it. 

“Having fun?” 

“Hmm,” Sherlock says. Then, half-distracted, “Not fun, it’s work.” 

“A lot of fork-related cat murders going on, are there?”

“Not impossible,” Sherlock remarks without looking at him, so it might be a comment on what John just said or it might just be some kind of observation on what he’s trying to prove - John waits a second to hear which it is, but Sherlock says nothing more. 

And he can’t just stand here, so John takes his shoes off, puts his feet in his slippers, and walks past him to make tea.

“You didn’t have sex. Your date.”

...but of course Sherlock had to deduce that. John briefly wonders if that’s going to be a thing now, every time he goes out Sherlock tells him after whether he tried to get off or not. “No, just coffee.”

And then, dammit, John has to admit that he’s been wanting to know, so he asks, trying not to sound at all curious, “You never date, then?” 

“No.” Sherlock sounds quite resolute about it. 

Probably thinks it’s beneath him. John’s not even sure Sherlock’s gay. John eyes him - or straight. He can’t tell, and it’s a bit... weird. “So you never have sex?” 

Sherlock looks up sharply. 

John breathes, not sure why that suddenly feels way too personal, while Sherlock knows that he _went to a prostitute_ last week. 

Sherlock stares at him. 

And right, that’s taking a bit too long to be comfortable. “I don’t... right, it’s none of my business.” 

Sherlock keeps looking at him, his lips slightly opened, throat working as he swallows. “I know how to have sex.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you...” John frowns. “...do. Right, never mind.” 

But Sherlock suddenly strips off his gloves, throws away the goggles, and pulls his apron over his head as he gets up. 

John braces himself. 

Sherlock looks at his crotch with a strangely intent look, and then announces, “I can help.”

And wow, if John’s cock doesn’t twitch at the thought. “You’d... um. Want to?” John has no idea what he sounds like, but the words feel hot in the back of his throat. 

This is where John should say no, and he knows it. He should say that he’s not into this, laugh it off, and they can go on being friends. 

Instead, John puts his hand on his zipper. 

He slowly opens the button, and pulls it down. 

“Yes.” Sherlock gets down on his knees, and it’s the best thing John’s seen in forever. John pushes his underwear down, takes his cock out, and Sherlock shuffles close, and puts his lips around it. 

It’s not going to work, it won’t - but then there is the small pressure of Sherlock’s lips, his dry skin hesitantly connecting with his cock. The quick flick of Sherlock’s tongue, wet. And then the warmth as his mouth closes around him, it’s a rush of heat pouring into him, and John moans, low and deep. 

Sherlock glances up at him, and there is something utterly pleased in his eyes right before he closes them, and sucks him in slow. 

John stares, transfixed, at the crown of Sherlock’s head between his legs. 

He can feel himself get fully hard in Sherlock’s mouth. It should be weird, but a mouth is a mouth. And what a mouth, Jesus, Sherlock sucks him like he means it, like he wants it. Sherlock rolls his tongue and breathes around his cock, John can hardly keep track of each movement, it’s just wet heat and suction.

Sherlock makes a small, breathy sound around the slick head of his cock and John groans in response, yes, that, _please_. 

Sherlock pulls back, all the way to the tip. Holds him in his hand, flicks his tongue over it, looks at him, and then goes deep again. 

John sighs. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck, and John wants to pull Sherlock’s head close, and just thrust, _take him_. But he holds back, instead stands still and feels the sweaty burn of it, the build-up. 

And then Sherlock pulls off again and tongues his slit, wetly, with broad swipes, and John suddenly knows that he could come. It’s right there, rising up. And he’d warn him, but he’s gotten so close before, so he doesn’t say a thing to risk it. He just breathes, raggedly. But then Sherlock wants to move to take him in again, so John says, fast, “ _No_ \- that, keep on, I, that...”

Sherlock does, licks right there, and John balls his fists, tenses... The whole room seems to throb with the beat of his desire, so close, so very... And then he finally pushes over the edge, hard, come gushing out of him. Sherlock moans at it, licks, and then sucks, his lips briefly around his cock. John groans at that, _too much_ , and Sherlock lets go and just uses his hand on him. 

John shudders, and leans back. He’s out of breath. Standing here, in the kitchen. 

His heart is beating fast. His legs tremble wildly.

Sherlock is bent close to him, so John touches Sherlock’s shoulder to push him away. Sherlock moves, but only slowly, and his eyes are still closed, so John says, without thinking, “You okay?”

Sherlock opens his eyes languidly, smiles, at first a little, and then a longer, deeper smile than John has ever seen directed at him. 

_God._

“I feel wonderful, John.” It’s said with honest and absolute conviction. 

It makes something guilty lock in John’s throat. _Never should have done this._

There’s a blob of come on Sherlock’s cheek. Some in his hair, even. He should have worn a condom - John can’t stop looking at it. 

Sherlock looks him in the eye, unabashedly, with a flush on his face and red-slick lips, and stands up.

John takes a step back immediately. Sherlock is looking at him as if the world has suddenly shifted on its axis or something, while John doesn’t... no. “I, ah.” John looks towards the door. 

Sherlock’s voice sounds low, when he says, “Of course,” but John isn’t listening, he turns and rushes out the door, up the stairs. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

_What did you just do, Watson._

Sherlock just sucked him off, and he liked it. No, he more than liked it, he _came_. John came for the first time in months, he came all over Sherlock’s face, and the thought of it makes him feel another hot pinch of want. 

_You’re getting off on men, now, is that it?_

And out of all of them, Sherlock. 

John stops on the middle of the stairs, looks at the wall, spots dancing in his vision, and breathes. 

God, what did he _do_?

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

John stays in his room all evening and night, and then goes downstairs early enough that Sherlock’s still asleep. _On the sofa._

John looks at Sherlock for a moment. 

But when he considers taking a step forward his mind brushes against a rough avalanche of consequences. He can’t. 

John makes tea, instead. And toast, and then eats it standing up in the kitchen, both because there is still congealed blood on the table, and because he doesn’t want to be staring at Sherlock when he wakes up. He catches a whiff of formaldehyde, and the smell alone is enough to remind him again - vividly - what happened last night. 

When Sherlock does wake up, looking soft around the edges, John finds that he’s watching him, anyway. 

John says, “Morning.” Because it’s one thing if it’s awkward for a while, but another if they’re full-on going to fall out over this. 

Sherlock nods. Then goes to the bathroom, comes back to the kitchen, sits down, and goes straight back to his experiment, as if nothing happened. And yeah, John’s fine with that, he can do that. He’s relieved, to be honest. Even smiles, a bit. 

That’s until John leans over Sherlock to take an empty mug off the table, and Sherlock starts so much he drops a pipette. He doesn’t even complain about it, just spends the next minute playing with the broken shards, looking extremely vexed with himself. 

John cleans up, or pretends to, and then goes to read the paper. He doesn’t look at Sherlock, but he still feels the vibrating, gaping _thing_ of him behind his back. 

Sherlock leaves after a while, to his room, and closes the door.

This isn’t going to go away that easily, is it? 

It didn’t mean anything. Just that his body wants it, maybe. And mistake or no, Sherlock did still do that for him. Maybe he can pay him back, John thinks, a hand job or something, and then they’re even. 

John gets up, a bit curious why Sherlock even closed his door - he’s hardly ever known him to - and knocks, lightly. 

He doesn’t hear anything, so he opens it. 

Sherlock is lying on his bed, his pyjama bottoms pushed down, holding his... _right_. 

John almost has the door closed, when Sherlock’s voice says, clear enough that John can’t pretend he didn’t hear it. “You didn’t touch me. Yesterday.”

John sighs. Says, to the half-opened door, _all right, talking about it now,_ “No. I didn’t.” 

But this is the solution then, he’ll do it now, and... Well, John’s not exactly thinking much at all - he opens the door. 

Sherlock hasn’t bothered covering himself up, he’s all long limbs and lines and, a _cock_. John pulls his eyes away, looks at his face. Then walks a bit closer, “I could, if you...” He nods at Sherlock’s crotch. 

Sherlock’s t-shirt is pushed up. His cock is lying on his stomach, red and hard. 

John, feeling brave, sits down on the bed. “What, um, what do you want?” 

Sherlock says, “I would have thought it to be obvious, John.” with a slight breathlessness that John can’t unhear. 

“I thought you didn’t do this.” 

Sherlock eyes him. “No.” 

Fine. John puts a careful hand on Sherlock’s upper leg. Looks at him. “You want me to...?” For some reason it’s still strange to actually reach out and take his cock. To do this. 

Sherlock sees, maybe, because he sits up, leans in towards him, and presses his lips... to his cheek. It feels pretty chaste. 

Sherlock lingers too, awkwardly leaning over him. Kisses his cheekbone. The edge of his jaw. Slowly drags his lips over his skin. 

John turns his face towards him, searches for his lips then, _fine, he can do kissing_. But Sherlock kisses his cheek again. John leans into it, and then moves so he can at least try to kiss him properly, and when he does Sherlock carefully leans in and licks into his mouth. 

He kisses with a sort of formal gentleness. 

It’s strange. 

Terrifying.

John shifts on the bed to be close enough, and wraps a hand around Sherlock’s cock before he can think about it too much. _There._ It’s warm and smooth like his own, like the others he’s touched, fast, furtively, in the army a time or two. 

Sherlock, at his touch, softly shudders. 

John runs his fingers over him, and gives him a good tug of a rhythm. He looks at him, too. Sherlock’s mouth is curved, red and warm. 

John slows it down a bit, makes it into a long, slow stroke. 

John can feel every ridge, every bump, the heat of it under his fingertips as he moves his hand back and forth. He trails his thumb over the head, and catches a tiny drop of fluid, feels it spread under his finger. 

The smell is heavy in his nose. 

Sherlock’s mouth is slack, just breathing his desire. His eyes are bright, and stuck on his. God, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he? 

John lets go, licks the palm of his hand, sees it glisten in the light, and moves it back to wrap around Sherlock. There’s a little less friction, at least for a bit, and he goes harder. Sherlock’s moving his hips into his touch now. His erection moves under his hand. 

John catches another drop of fluid, spreads it, and speeds it up. 

Sherlock breathes, and whispers, “ _John._ ” He shuts his eyes, his muscles tense, and his mouth opens at the rush of it. John can feel the sudden burst of hot come over his fingers.

John slows his hand down. Fuck, that was nice. He’s a little out of breath himself, just watching Sherlock come like this.

Then lets go.

Because that’s it, right? They’re even, or at least as close as. 

But... John’s hard, too. His cock is _throbbing_ , actually. 

Sherlock touches his leg, and John doesn’t stop him. Sherlock’s fingers wander up over his trousers he - _ohthat’sgood_ \- puts his hand over his crotch. And fine, yes, John might as well... John unzips, moves to push his trousers down, his pants. 

It only takes a moment before Sherlock bends over him.

It’s nothing like the kissing was, Sherlock’s not hesitating at all, taking him deep straight away and John nearly pants at the shock of sudden pressure. It’s even better than the first time. The heat curls though his stomach, urgent and sharp. 

John thrusts a little bit, small movements of his hips that Sherlock takes.

After a moment of hesitation, John tangles his hand into Sherlock’s hair, and that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, he shouldn’t be near coming just from... 

He can feel it building, and he greedily, guiltily wants it. Sherlock is sucking and licking and _right there_ , and John can’t not, he can’t, he pants and lets it happen, comes into his mouth, _fast_. 

Sherlock swallows it all. 

John is still shaking when Sherlock lets go this time. 

Sherlock looks away. 

And suddenly, John can see how this could go - a bit of sex between friends. They wouldn’t need to talk about it, it would be perfect, really. Except that Sherlock is already moving away with a carefully closed expression, and that doesn’t seem... 

John leans in to kiss him. Or he tries to, he’s surprised Sherlock and it’s an awkward angle so it’s a quick hit of John’s lips hard against his. 

But Sherlock eyes him with a small smile. 

John says, still high on getting off, “So, you want to go on a... date, or something?” How does this work? 

Sherlock breathes, a small moment of disbelief. And then says, “We have a case.” 

“The cat livers?” Right. 

Sherlock nods, “Yes.” He jumps out of bed, pulls his pyjama bottoms up, and then turns around, and says, “We can have more sex later.” 

Sherlock walks out, and John stays there, still sitting on his bed with his cock out. 

_This is his life, then, is it?_

John raises his voice, loud enough that Sherlock can hear him, “So when you say later...?” 

The reply is immediate, “Two to three hours. Then again tonight, if you want to.”

John lowers his head in his hands, and he’s not sure if he wants to cry or scream or giggle, so he kind of gasps for breath. _Congratulations, Watson, you’re shagging your flatmate._

A couple of breaths later, Sherlock’s head re-appears in the doorway, he’s holding a single yellow bloodied glove, and frowning. “Is that unsatisfactory?” 

John breathes a laugh that sort of tears at his chest. “No, that’s...” It’s fine. “Good.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock nods, and goes away again. 

It’s good. 

It’s going to be.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
